Page 11 of Love You Like That

We packed up the blanket and tossed the scraps of whatever remained before walking toward my car. His hand brushed mine every so often, not holding it, just… being there. Teasing. Reminding.

“I drive,” I offered once we reached the car. “You navigate.”

“Cool,” he said.

The drive to River Ave was smooth, the city quieting down for the night but still buzzing in its corners. Heat still existing. My playlist played low with old school Jill Scott and some Erykah Badu, setting the mood without doing too much. Ezra gave calm and confident directions like he knew the city as if it lived under his skin.

“Right here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the corner just past a barber shop and a nail salon. A small, unassuming building with fogged windows and a glowing red OPEN sign in cursive sat tucked in the middle.

I parked and raised an eyebrow. “This is it?”

He nodded. “Don’t let the outside fool you. Inside? It’s a vibe.”

We walked in, and he was right. The air changed the second the door shut behind us., AC blowing. There were velvet booths and a narrow stage where a saxophone player swayed in the middle of a solo that curled into your bones. Laughter and soft clinking glasses. The scent of hot oil and seasoning hit my nose, and I damn near moaned.

“Okay,” I said under my breath. “You got that.”

“I know.”

The hostess gave Ezra a familiar nod and led us to a booth in the back, tucked in a corner that felt damn near romantic even though we hadn’t asked for anything special.

The second we sat down, I leaned toward him across the table. “You come here a lot?”

“Used to.”

“What made you bring me here?”

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “'Cause you deserve softness and this place is that.”

My breath caught a little. I looked down at my napkin and tried not to melt. A young waitress came by with a curly fro and glossy lips and grinned wide when she saw Ezra.

“I knew that was you,” she said, smacking his shoulder playfully. “Where you been, E?”

“Layin’ low,” he chuckled. “This is Yavanni.”

She looked at me and smiled, eyes knowing. “She’s beautiful. You like her. I can tell.”

I laughed into my hand, eyes wide. “Damn, gettin’ straight to it, huh?” Ezra just looked at me and smirked.

We ordered wings—half lemon pepper, half honey sriracha—and two drinks. I requested an expresso martini while he chose Hennessy straight. From there, the conversation just kept flowing about his next open mic night, my last clinical and about the things we loved that nobody ever asked us about.

“I used to dance,” I admitted after my second drink. “Like, seriously.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. Modern. Afro-contemporary. Did a summer at Alvin Ailey once.”

He blinked. “You just casually droppin' Alvin Ailey like that ain’t legendary shit?”

I shrugged, biting a wing. “My family expected me to do something… different.”

“And now?”

“I’m still learning how to do things for me.”

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on me like I was unraveling in front of him. “You so fuckin’ dope, Yavanni.”

I felt that in my chest. “So are you,” I whispered.

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